


pawprints

by meowcosm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Cats, Domestic Fluff, Dreams, Fishing, Holidays, M/M, Male My Unit | Byleth, Married Couple, Nature, also ft a little conversation about having a kid, casual nudity, very fluffy but in the strange way that befits byhardt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24874534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowcosm/pseuds/meowcosm
Summary: On a holiday as a break from Byleth's work as the Archbishop, Linhardt and his husband find themselves an unexpected companion- or two.
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 7
Kudos: 71





	pawprints

The first time Byleth sees a cat sneak into his fishing hut, he doesn’t say a word. 

It’s a small, rotund little thing, with neat ears and eyes brighter than he’s come to expect from strays- he supposes it must traverse the area, and eat rather well from the fishers’ catch. Certainly, watching it drag away one of the larger loaches he’s pulled from the lake he and Linhardt have set up shop at, there’s nothing to indicate a lack of practice or poise. 

He supposes, too, that he should shoo it away. But really, it’s his own fault. Neither he or Linhardt bother to shut the door properly with any regularity- the area is deserted, and the cabin constructed clumsily enough and so long ago that there’s nothing he can do about insects in the first place. He might have the cat to thank for the absence of rodents, too, and he’d hate to be ungrateful for the service. 

Their eyes meet, briefly, as the cat retreats back into the world outside, dawn breaking over the horizon. It stops, expecting a challenge; instead, Byleth encourages it on, still aside from the gentle urging of his hand. It darts, then- perhaps if Linhardt wasn’t asleep next to him, Byleth would have tried his hand at befriending the creature, eventually placing them on Linhardt’s lap. Being away from the monastery means an absence of feline companionship, the sort which both of them get fairly lonely without. It’ll be worse, though, if he disturbs Linhardt’s sleep. Linhardt’s never minded it from him, of course, but if he stirs him now then his lover might fall flat on his face by the lakeside, potentially into the water. It’s happened before, and Byleth’s life as the archbishop troubles him enough. That’s why they’re out here- to rest. 

In the spirit of that, Byleth tucks himself back into the sheets, pressing himself to Linhardt’s back. He puts the cat out of his mind, and after a while, all other thoughts go with it. 

-

The second time Byleth sees the same cat, it’s in the forest clearing adjacent to the lake. 

They’ve been fishing all day- it’s a fishing holiday, after all- but despite the relatively low physical exertion involved with the activity, Byleth can’t help but feel he’s past his patience with making shows of strength, and he calls Linhardt in for dinner before the sunset even begins. Or rather, out for dinner- the cabin is humble, and can’t fit much in it, so much of the dining equipment remains out in the freedom of nature. It’s fish, because fish is what they have, garnished with wild herbs and served with bread- a spin on a recipe from the academy days, differentiated enough that it doesn’t remind either of them too much of monastery food. 

Byleth regrets it, though only a little, when Linhardt shows up to the table soaking wet and naked, long hair plastered to his face and shoulders. Its colouration makes it look like seaweed, and if they were by the coast, Byleth suspects he would have mistaken it for that. 

“I went for a swim.” Linhardt states, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And it is, really. “I didn’t know you were making dinner so early.” 

“I couldn’t fish for much longer.” Byleth mutters, pushing Linhardt’s plate closer to where he sits on the opposite side of the table. It’s nice dinnerware, nice enough that it looks almost comically out of place on the carved-log table. But Linhardt doesn’t question it, and in turn, Byleth doesn’t question Linhardt’s lack of hesitation when it comes to diving straight into his meal while still naked, smelling strongly of lake water and exposed in the open. 

There’s nobody to see them, after all. Unlike at the monastery, where people crowd to receive the blessings of the Archbishop, the thick blanket of wilderness secludes them from others, even the local inhabitants. The lake cowers behind an expansive wall of mountain, traversable only by the hardy, worthwhile for even fewer. The simple loneliness is a complicated emotion for both of them, but it is comforting so long as they’re together. 

For a brief moment, though, Byleth’s life flashes before his eyes. Something stirs in the distance, different to the sounds of wildlife he’s gotten used to already. Closer-by, not so intimidated by the presence of humans and their settlements. It could very well be a human- a child, or someone crouching, but a human nonetheless. 

He pauses, a slice of bread hanging from his mouth, to take a closer look. Linhardt doesn’t question it, still chewing on a piece of braised fish. 

  
“There’s something in the woods. Behind you.” he states, matter-of-fact. For the first time since he placed the plate in front of him, Linhardt looks upwards. 

“Fascinating.” 

His head dips downwards again, focusing once more on the meal. Byleth doesn’t think he’s ever seen Linhardt so hungry, but he supposes it might be related to the exertion involved in lake-swimming. Regardless, he refocuses his eyes on the presence in the distance once more- how it continues to flit and pace amongst the branches. Listening to its steps, Byleth concludes that it’s not a human- its footsteps are much too gentle- but it is certainly an unusual presence. 

And, well- it’s hardly as if he’s a stranger to investigating the unusual. Pressing a kiss to Linhardt’s forehead as he does, Byleth steps up from the wooden bench, and takes muffled steps towards the open forest behind him. Keeping himself quiet comes natural to him- it’s a skill that a mercenary is hard-pressed to live without- but even when Byleth’s steps are punctuated by the crack of stranded twigs and branches, the creature seems to be neither frightened nor aggressive at the sound. 

He gets closer, and a blink lets him disperse the last fuzziness in his vision.

_ Four legs. A tail, almost as long as the body. Short, and squat. Maybe the length of a large tree, horizontally _ .

A glimmer of days prior flashes in his mind, once clouded by his sleepiness during the event.

_ Is it that cat again? _

Byleth stands up straight, ending his slow, crouching sneak. He turns backwards, and finds Linhardt watching him, finally distracted from his meal.

“It’s a cat.” Byleth calls, before thinking of the consequences of making too much sound. He turns backwards, and finds that thankfully, it hasn’t been frightened off.

“It seems we may not be able to escape as much of our lives at the Monastery as we believed.” Linhardt replies, almost yelling to convey his voice over the distance. It entertains Byleth, to hear Linhardt yell, as rare of a sound as it is. 

Still turned towards the cat, Byleth begins to beckon it, hand outstretched. To his delight, it approaches him, albeit still with a trepidation uncommon for the felines that frequent the monastery. As it comes ever closer, Byleth can see how close it comes to his recollection of the cat which previously visited the hut. 

_ Perhaps _ , he thinks,  _ it might recognize me _ . Though his memory of the visit is jumbled, Byleth can recall making eye contact with ease. 

The cat continues to approach him with intrigue, gentle and slow in the way its soft paws hit the long grass silently. Byleth extends his hand further- in turn, it moves ever forward, until it’s standing before Byleth and sniffing him.

It’s very much the cat he encountered earlier in the week- its fur is the same, and its eyes are wide and sweet. It’s round, too, with fur a colour that’s nearly indistinguishable from the sandy breaks by the lake. 

Byleth uncurls his fingers, encouraging the intrepid attention being paid to him. He keeps his body still, and returns to the crouching position he took previously, lowering himself to show submission. 

It’s not a pose he holds for long, though. The cat hesitates briefly in the middle of its inquiry, and before Byleth can process it, familiarly sharp teeth clamp onto his fingertips, breaking the skin with immediacy. It’s not incredibly painful, but he can’t back bite a sharp whine, or the instinctual twist of his body as he backs away from the source of his injuries. There’s no aggression in the cat’s behaviour, and Byleth supposes that it was probably his fault for approaching the presumably-hungry thing with the scent of fish clinging to his skin. His internal apologetics for the feline don’t make the bite any less painful, though, and he stumbles backwards as he recoils from the pain, toppling him and greatly startling the cat.

Lying on the floor, facing the slight incline which leads towards the forest, the first thing Byleth feels is his back hitting the soft earth, a decent cushion for an unpleasant fall. Second is the fresh pain of the newly ripped and bleeding softskin on his fingertips, seeping blood into his outdoors clothes. The third thing he feels is a sense of disappointment at the sight of a long tail vanishing over the horizon, body unwilling to shift enough to initiate pursuit. 

“If you got bitten by that cat, I hope it hasn’t developed a taste for your blood.”

It doesn’t do much to soothe his wounded pride when Linhardt approaches, still naked. As he hovers over Byleth’s downed body, he’s treated to a full-frontal view of Linhardt’s thin frame from below- granted, he’s not unfamiliar with it, but it reminds him too much of his encounter with the farmer by the crevasse he was once pushed into for him to feel particularly appreciative of it. 

“Funny,” Linhardt begins, “I’ve always thought you’d be the one to find me laying down somewhere, naked as the day you were born.”

Byleth shoots him an unimpressed look, and raises his arm up for assistance. Linhardt wraps himself around Byleth’s, but not before continuing his train of thought. 

  
“And I’d always imagined that to be rather more romantic than this.” he contemplates. “I didn’t factor in the presence of a cat.”

Byleth wants to huff, but all of the air has been knocked out of his lungs. Instead, he lets Linhardt channel the full extent of his physical prowess into dragging Byleth up once more, staggered on his feet.

-

The third time Byleth sees the cat, he’s not sure if he’s ready to welcome it back. 

Of course, Linhardt’s joke about it developing a taste for his blood is just that- a joke. And even if it wasn’t, the wound shows no sign of developing an infection, and Byleth has taken on many an enemy more formidable than a single stray cat. 

But when he sees the thing strutting down the path leading to the patch where they’ve been collecting firewood, he stops. Apprehensive, as if he were truly staring down an old foe. 

“It’s you.”

Byleth’s voice catches its attention, stopping it in its tracks. It returns the fixation of his gaze, eventually coming to sit firm on the ground, blocking Byleth’s progression to where a few spare logs lie in wait for the evening’s campfire. The sun is setting over the horizon, dipping low beyond the tips of the pine trees, and Byleth isn’t sure he has the patience to outlast something that can willingly and with no detriment lie down and fall asleep on the forest floor. 

He raises his right hand, its forefingers now wrapped in bandages. 

“You did this.”

A weak meow escapes from the cat, and it drops down to the floor, exposing its soft stomach. Byleth huffs- _ I won’t be fooled by a mock demonstration of weakness _ . He takes a determined step forward, challenging the cat to move from where it’s taken up residence on the dirt path. It raises its head, acknowledging Byleth’s determined stance, but remains otherwise motionless and still.

Byleth’s hand moves, instinctually, to clutch the Sword of the Creator, once held always by his side. But there’s a gaping absence where the sacred blade once was, and Byleth finds himself awkwardly sliding his hand on the top of his thigh instead. 

He breathes in, and exhales, sighing.

_ It’s just a cat. You’ve dealt with cats before. You don’t need to attack it with your sword _ . 

Byleth ducks his head, and faces the floor in forgiveness for the hastiness of his movements. The cat remains unresponsive, but in the way it glances at him, Byleth tries to intuit a sense of accepted repentance- not only towards him, but for its own actions towards Byleth. He’s no better at understanding animals than he is humans- ranking him somewhere around awkward, if well-meaning- but in the gentle manner of the feline foe, he feels confident of forgiveness. Instead of allowing his path to be blocked, he side-steps past the interruption on the road, and strides confidently towards the interior of the forest. Knowing that by the time he comes back down, the cat will likely be gone, free to follow the strange whims of whatever fate might create for it. 

What he doesn’t expect is the feeling of soft fur brushing against the bottom of his trouser leg, pressing it close to his body. It’s a gentle sensation, and Byleth can’t do much to fight it- he supposes that he should be glad there’s plenty of water nearby, as the monastery cats likely won’t appreciate it if they find he’s been covered in the scent of a stranger. 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bite me again.”

\- 

The fourth time Byleth sees the cat, he knows it’s not real. 

Well- the cat is real. It exists, physically, in the world outside of the dream he’s experiencing, its concurrent soft lucidity. But in the dream he’s having, wrapped as he is in his marital bed, the cat is not real. It is simply an image of a cat, one that Byleth has conjured up. What happens to it, what it does- what he does to it- they matter not. 

With that knowledge, he doesn’t waste a second in dipping down to rub its soft, down-coated belly. A further testament to the illusory nature of the world they inhabit, the cat doesn’t draw away from his motion. Instead, it rolls over, exposing its belly as if it had no fear of death in its heart. 

It doesn’t, Byleth tells himself. The cat is a dream, and you’re dreaming. 

He sinks his hand in deeper, to the point that he can feel his hand begin to phase through the body of the cat. It’s a strange sensation, as if one could reach their hand through the glass pane of a closed window to feel the air outside on their hand. But there’s no cry of pain from the lone feline, so Byleth sees no reason to give pause to the attention.

“Good cat.”

Briefly, he wonders if he’s speaking the same words out loud. Linhardt has never told him that he talks in his sleep- though perhaps for no other reason than his tendency to sleep even more often, and much deeper, than Byleth does. But this sort of dream is a fleeting thing, and its rules are vaguely defined. It is a place strange enough that Byleth does not think to withdraw when the spectral cat splits itself into several entities, each bearing the same markings and physical features. 

His only real concern is whether he’ll be able to pet them all in time. 

Withdrawing his hand from the progenitor cat, Byleth feels its matter shift around his wrist, still unbreaking. It trembles around him, but the cat displays no fear. Not even when it begins to dissolve into a glowing light, one that dissipates into the surroundings and illuminates the once featureless white void Byleth finds himself in.

It’s his bedroom. Or, the place which was once his bedroom. The last time Byleth had visited the place, it had been occupied by a student whose lost item Byleth had sought to return. Something which took place two, perhaps three, years ago. And in the brief glimpse Byleth had caught of the interior of the room from the doorway, he’d known it was an altogether different space; his room had never been decorated, but this iteration of the space was decked out in intricate details and memorabilia. In a way, it pleased him to see it. He could not live in that space forever; his place was in his marital bedroom, by his husband's side. 

In the moment, though, Byleth feels like he's returning home. The room is almost identical to how he left it when he was moved to the staff quarters, the only place which could accommodate a double bed. His calendar, his notes, his collection of blades and trinkets, lined up where they used to be. 

Despite everything- despite the knowledge that none of what he sees is real- Byleth can't stem his desire to take a seat on the thin blanket which once covered him. So he does; relieved at the fact that his body doesn't phase through the frame of the bed when he sits. A vividly familiar sensation flows through Byleth as he slowly lowers his body even further, coming to lie flat on the mattress. 

_ How strange, to get so close to sleep in a dream _ . 

His thoughts are put on hold, however, by one of the spectral cats climbing onto the bed. Its paws weigh Byleth down as it steps over his body, eventually coming to his chest. It begins to knead, there, its paws not passing through Byleth's body as his own had done with the other cat. Byleth considers deterring it, but gives in, his body feeling heavier and heavier by the second. 

Slowly, one at a time, the other cats formed from the body of their progenitor clamber up onto him. They begin, too, to knead at his chest. And though their weight accumulates, Byleth hardly feels like he’s bearing it on his body. It is as if they lack weight, despite the way they push down on him. 

The heaviness which hangs over him, then, must originate somewhere else. Byleth tries to lift his arms to determine its source, but it’s hard- too hard. It aches, dull, when he tries to jostle his body into responsiveness. 

“This is strange.” he murmurs. One of the cats looks over at him, meeting his gaze with typical apathy while the others continue to stand and paw. “Do you think so?”

There’s no response. Byleth supposes he should have expected that, what with his conversation partner being a cat. A cat that weighs nothing, and which formed from the dispersing body of a similarly intangible cat- but, still. As it ducks its head down, he watches it, moving from its standing position to curl up below his throat. If it were not weightless, it would likely make his breathing more shallow. Byleth has been sat on by enough cats to know that. But it’s nothing, nothing but an image. 

When it gazes at him again, its eyes fill with nothing, and Byleth doesn’t look away. It reminds him of a place that he’s been fortunate enough to, for the most part, forget about. For a moment, a wave of fear overtakes him, the perilous thought of falling once more into the darkness. Particularly now that he can’t resist, now that his body seems to fail beneath him. 

It places a paw square on Byleth’s face, and all unconsciousness slips from him.

He wakes up in his bed, still at Linhardt’s side. 

-

The fifth time Byleth sees the cat is mere moments after the fourth. 

His nightmares about the void are something he’s familiar with. In them, he’s sinking, deep and lost. There’s nobody to find him, and nobody by his side. So the first thing he does when he escapes them is to look for someone- anyone- in the space around him. 

Mentally, Byleth utters his thanks that he didn’t have to go through such distress this time. As surreal as that dream might have been, it could have been much worse, in all sorts of ways he’s already learned to expect. Still, he follows the patterns, the routines he’s used to comfort himself over the years. And true to all tradition, Linhardt is there, face pressed against the pillow, snoring deeply. Still in a post-sleep haze, Byleth slips his fingers to the nape of his husband’s neck in order to feel his heartbeat. 

When he finds something _ furry _ , something  _ soft _ , he recoils, emitting something between a hiss and a whimper as he does. It only takes him a brief moment of focus on his finger to realize that there’s a thin, feline hair attached to it, easily distinguished from Linhardt’s long,  _ human _ , green tresses 

If Linhardt has been changed into a cat, Byleth thinks he can live with that. He doesn’t act too unlike one, so adjusting their lifestyle might not be too hard. Still, he returns his hand, in search of a more likely answer. 

When he finds the mysterious softness once more, it fails to surprise him. Instead of hurtling backwards like a falling leaf, though, he feels it deeper, more attentively. 

_ Whatever it is, it’s thin. And it’s moving. _

_ The tail of a cat? _

Twisting, Byleth repositions himself to a place where he’s able to look over at Linhardt’s chest. He’s sleeping on his back, covered in blankets, hair splaying across the pillow. So- if he was a cat, now, because Byleth has seen enough of the ridiculous and surreal to believe it might be so- it would make little sense for his tail to reach where Byleth had found it just a moment ago. 

(He would also look like a cat, or at least closer to one. Which he doesn’t, at least from what Byleth can see. That knowledge lets him breathe a sigh of relief, at least.) 

What seems the more obvious origin of such a strange phenomenon, then, is the soft, fluffy-looking cat that’s taken up residence on his stomach. From the moment Byleth spots it, he stares at it, mouth agape. 

The cat he just dreamed of. As if he’d summoned it, or he’d dreamed of it because of its presence, which had certainly not been a factor when they’d retired to bed. Indeed, Byleth recalls their sleep being entirely cat-free at first, and while the slight opening of the door provides a decent theory as to how this affair came about, he can’t deny that the circumstance is somewhat confusing. Particularly when there’s more than one feline voice coming from on top of Linhardt’s body, some much lighter and weaker than normal.

He shuffles out from underneath the swaddling of the blankets, thankful that he chose to wear at least his underclothes to bed. Despite the shiver that hits his skin when exposed to the air, it doesn’t take him long to rise to his feet. A position that lets him look down at Linhardt- down to where the fluffy pile rests on his chest. 

It’s the same cat. Byleth knew it from the moment that he saw the strand of fur, but it’s even more jarring now. Still, it doesn’t surprise him. What does surprise him, though, is the sight of faint squirming near the cat’s stomach, a veritable palette of colours twisting against each other in whorls of fur and soft pink stomachs. 

_ Kittens. _

It sounds like an old wives’ cautionary tale; that one who sleeps too deep and still might find that a cat has birthed upon them, cursing them to remain in one place. But Linhardt- he makes it seem like the most understandable thing in the world. If anything, it looks right, a mother molly nursing her young on his chest. The strangest things have always been drawn to them, after all.

Gently, Byleth runs his hand down Linhardt’s face. It’s a simple motion, not sufficient in waking him the first time he does it. So he repeats it, as if he were petting the cat, rather than trying to rouse his lover from his sleep. Still, though it takes a second, it works- slowly, but surely, Linhardt’s eyelids part. He takes a moment to yawn before blinking upwards, surely as sleep-heady as Byleth was.

“You woke me up,” he whines. “At least do it with a kiss, please.”

Without comment, he ducks down, and places his lips first on Linhardt’s cheek, then his own slips. The edges of Linhardt’s mouth curl upwards, soft with affection.

“Better.” he sighs, his lover still withdrawing. 

Byleth glances around, and coughs briefly.

“A cat has given birth on your chest while you were sleeping.”

Initially, the look Linhardt gives him is quizzical- entirely understandably. He glances down, though, to check the veracity of Byleth’s statement. He finds what Byleth knows he’ll find- a litter of squirming things, nestled on his chest. As well as the weight of their mother on his chest.

Linhardt blinks once, unfazed, before looking back up at Byleth, still hovering over him. 

“So it has.” Linhardt mutters, the last syllable distorted by his breaking into a sigh. “Did you know about this?”

Byleth shakes his head. He thinks of explaining the dream, but with Linhardt as disinterested in being talked to post-sleep as he always is, he decides doing so would be a wasted effort.

“Mm.” he sighs, laying his head back down and shutting his eyes once more. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“The cat-”

Before Byleth can say a word to the contrary, Linhardt’s breathing slows, a clear sign that he’s asleep. Glancing down at the little family, it doesn’t seem like they’ve been particularly concerned by Linhardt’s rousement. And the light which slips through the doorway is limited and cool, meaning that Byleth has a while before either of them truly need to awake. 

Silently, he crawls away from the bed, feet unsteady with each step he takes along the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies what he’s looking for. An old fish-basket, which could easily fit a woollen bedding cloth. 

At the thought of removing all the kittens from Linhardt’s chest, he sighs. 

_ It’s going to be a long morning _ . 

-

The hearse pulls away from the lake cabin at the expected time, two weeks after they arrived. It’s hard, as it always is, to jostle Linhardt out of his restful state. It’s only when Byleth bribes him with affection that he agrees to haul his belongings into the trunk, which Byleth then packs beneath them. Another time, he might have kept it on his lap, the pressure satisfying and comforting. 

Now, though, he has something more important to bear. A noisy, shaking, cat-scented basket perches on his lap from the moment he steps inside, cushioned against any potential rocking of the hearse by their bedding. 

“You take good care of them.” It’s the first thing Linhardt has said the entire day that isn’t a complaint, and just like always, it makes Byleth’s heart melt. 

The next thing he says, though, makes it palpate. 

“Do you want our own?”

“...Kittens?” It’s an assumption that doesn’t make much sense, and Byleth knows that. They’re already carrying a litter of kittens all the way back to Garreg Mach, after all. But the alternative is a momentous prospect. 

As expected, Linhardt shakes his head.

“A human kitten.”

“...A baby?”

“I forgot the word,” Linhardt chuckles. “Not now. But it would be nice to come here, just the three of us.”

As is often the case, Linhardt is right. It _ does _ sound nice. 

**Author's Note:**

> ty for reading!!
> 
> i'm @meowcosm on twitter! i love to talk about byhardt
> 
> kudos and comments are appreciated!!


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